


A Strange Sort Of Tenderness

by cmdonovann



Category: Quantum Break (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Smut, Time Travel, Trans Character, having sex with your past self, idk - Freeform, trans Paul Serene, weirdly soft but incredibly tense and awkward smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 19:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11387049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmdonovann/pseuds/cmdonovann
Summary: Paul Serene is a disaster. Just let him have this.And by "this" I mean "a single moment of physical affection and a distraction from his angst" which, you know, isn't ever gonna happen, but whatever.Listen, this was just an excuse to write weird sensual shit and to make Paul fuck himself, literally. And I didn't even get around to that. It's mostly just... stuff. I originally had Paul written as an Actual Cis Dude Man™ but fuck that, I went back and edited it so he's trans now. I don't give a fuck.The theme of writing this: "IDFC (Tarro Remix)" by Blackbear https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gxE4ngu78Ro





	A Strange Sort Of Tenderness

There’s complications to reliving years of your life, Paul Serene has found. There’s the fact that any money in his wallet when he arrived in 1999 was utterly useless, most of it printed after 2005. There’s the learning curve of readjusting to technology that’s frustratingly outdated.

 

Then, of course, there’s the risk of running into his past self.

 

It’s a risk he’s taken more than once, and gotten damn close a few times in the past. Too close for comfort, maybe, but he always managed to convince himself that it was justified, that he just wanted to check in, make sure everything was alright.

 

Of course everything was alright, or as “alright” as it could have been for his younger self. That isn’t the real reason he feels so compelled to spy on his past self and his best friend, though he can’t put to words what the real reason was. Loneliness? Concern? Self-loathing?

 

Early after he first went back, within the first few years, he found himself hanging around places he knew that he and Jack had frequented as teens, hoping to see them there. Sometimes he did. The encounters always left him with a pang in his chest and a deep sense of wrongness, but he didn’t care. But he pushed it away, ignored the risks, lurked around almost wishing they would notice him.

 

They never did. As far as anyone knew, he’s never had any interaction with his past self.

 

That’s about to change.

 

Paul has had the date marked on his calendar for a while now; he knows it has to happen because it already has, and he’s committed the night to memory in vivid detail.

 

On September 17th, 2016, in the earliest hours of the morning, Paul Serene has to meet his past self.

 

———

 

It is 3-in-the-fucking-AM and Paul is reaching his limit on caffeination and consecutive hours spent awake. He honestly can’t remember ever being in any state except his current one, which is very jittery and very, very tired.

 

He’s secluded himself in one of the less-used physics labs to work on the final draft of the official proposal for Project Promenade, and besides coffee and bathroom breaks, he hasn’t left the room in almost two days. His world has narrowed to the computer screen in front of him and the small space of black countertop that isn’t covered by spare radio bits from one of the physics classes and his own discarded cardboard coffee cups.

 

Needless to say, he needs a fucking break.

 

Paul saves his work and turns the computer screen’s brightness down as low as it goes. He leans back from the table, blinking slowly to clear the fog from his tired, dry eyes and stretching his arms above his head, back and shoulders popping and cracking, releasing some of the tension built up in his body. He lets out a sigh, rubbing his eyes with one hand as he pulls out his phone and turns it on to see if anyone has tried to contact him during his anxiety-induced cram session. Nothing.

 

For a moment he considers texting Jack, or emailing him, but he can’t stand looking at the light of his phone screen, and anyway Jack is probably somewhere in Asia and Paul knows how expensive data for international phone plans can be. He tucks his phone back into his pocket and leans forward slowly, resting his arms on his knees as his forehead hits the cool surface of the table in front of him and he closes his eyes.

 

“Just a few minutes,” he mutters to himself, knowing damn well that it will be more than that. At least the last cup of coffee he had 30 minutes ago will still be in his system, he thinks, and there’s no way he’ll be out for more than an hour or two.

 

———

 

Paul hasn’t been asleep for long when something stirs him back to consciousness; he’s distantly aware of a hand on his shoulder and he jerks awake very suddenly, sitting up and feeling the back of his head hit something soft and probably human before a hand clasps over his mouth in the semi-darkness. Paul’s stomach feels like it’s dropped out of his body, like he’s just gone over the hill of a roller coaster, and his limbs flail for a moment as he panics before trying to grab onto the arm now encircling his shoulders.

 

“Hush, don’t panic,” an eerily familiar voice hisses in his ear. Paul goes limp for a moment, the tone of that voice stirring a deep sense of wrongness in his gut. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

 

Paul tries to swivel his head around to get out of the grip on his upper body, but he’s held tight and the figure behind him makes a small huff sound as they try to keep Paul still. The light in the room is dim, but Paul can see the outlines of everything lit by the light from the street lamps outside the window and the little dim green and red LEDs on the buttons of computers.

 

The stranger loosens their grip just slightly, one hand still over Paul’s mouth. “Are you alright?” The voice asks, and Paul isn’t sure how to answer. He nods just slightly. That horrible feeling in his gut is still there, the voice too familiar to be anything but…

 

“I’m going to let you go. Please be quiet.” Paul nods again, and the hands release him.

 

He scrambles out of his chair, knocking it to the side, and turns to face the figure. His hands and arms and legs are still shaky— he was right about the caffeine taking a while to wear off— and as he struggles to find some kind of purchase on the table behind him, one hand lands on the keyboard of his computer, powering it back up. The light from the screen illuminates the figure in front of him, and his heart stops.

 

Standing before him, arms still up in a slight defensive position, is… himself. The other Paul looks tired, maybe more tired than Paul is, lines creasing his eyes and forehead, grey at the temples. He’s wearing a large black coat, much too warm for the September weather, but Paul can tell that he’s thinner underneath it, and his shoulders are obviously broader than Paul’s from more muscle. Paul feels like a cartoon character with his jaw on the floor.

 

“Holy shit,” Paul whispers, and the other version of him makes a slight movement forward as if to subdue him again, concerned that Paul is about to shout for help. He doesn’t.

 

“Oh my god,” Paul looks up and down this strange future version of himself, his brain running a thousand miles an hour and his heart barely keeping pace. “You’re— I’m—“

 

“I’m a future version of you, yes,” the other Paul says, relaxing slightly and putting his hands in his pockets. Paul beams.

 

“So it works then! Project Promenade, it’s successful?” Paul feels some emotion bubbling up in his chest. Relief? Excitement?

 

The figure in front of him remains still, maintaining eye contact with him, but doesn’t make any indication at an answer. “This isn’t all for nothing, I can promise you that,” he says slowly, his eyes never leaving his younger self, his expression unreadable. The words are calculated, controlled, and Paul feels that sense of wrongness again.

 

“Why— why are you here?” Paul’s grip on the edge of the table behind him slips a little, his palms sweating. There’s something different about him. It’s not just the obvious age, it’s in the way he carries himself, in the air around him, a confidence that Paul has never had himself, a sense of power and control that terrifies and excites him. He wonders for a moment how he could possibly become the person standing in front of him, and his heart skips a beat.

 

The other Paul looks over him quickly. “This has already happened for me. I’m here because I would always have been here, because you’re experiencing it now and I’ve already lived this.” His voice is still low, choosing his words carefully. Paul knows himself well enough to realize it’s not the whole truth, and he raises an eyebrow.

 

“That’s not the only reason, though.”

 

“No.”

 

There’s silence for a moment, Paul expecting more, but when his older self offers no elaboration, he gives in to the questions whirling around in his mind.

 

“How old are you? What year are you from?” he blurts out, excitement getting the best of him. “What’s the future like? Do we ever land anyone on Mars? Is the new Star Wars movie any good?” He feels a bit ridiculous, but his whole body is jittery from lack of sleep and too much coffee and he can’t help it. A smile crosses the face of the older Paul and he seems to relax for a moment.

 

“I’m… almost 48,” he says, a tone of nostalgia in his voice as he looks at his past self. “I can’t really tell you much about the future, unfortunately.”

 

“Oh, come on!”

 

“Please, keep your voice down,” the older Paul says, taking a step forward and leaning in closer to Paul. “I’d prefer that no one know I’m here.”

 

“Okay,” Paul says softly, his heart beating a little too hard. He leans back against the table, as if he can distance himself from the intense gaze his future self is giving him. “Uh, can I—“ Paul feels himself tripping over his thoughts and his words. He hasn’t talked to a real human in days. “Can I ask about, uh, other stuff?”

 

His older self gives a slight, controlled shrug. “I can’t guarantee a good answer.”

 

“Well, I guess that’s fair,” Paul says. “God, I— okay. How long does it take before Project Promenade actually works?”

 

The future Paul looks thoughtful for a moment. “You’re tired of working so much, aren’t you?” He glances down at the small pile of empty cardboard coffee cups sitting toward the edge of the table. Paul nods, letting out a sigh.

 

“I just want to be successful here, okay?”

 

“I understand,” older Paul says quietly. “I’ve lived the same things you have,” he reminds Paul. He takes another step closer to the table to pick up one of the empty cups and turn it around in his hand, and Paul’s breath hitches in his throat, intimidated by the aura of utter sureness that his future self exudes. Like every small movement is planned. “It’s not too long now, don’t worry,” he says, setting the cup back down. “Less than a month.”

 

“Wait, what? Really?” Paul sputters. “Holy shit.”

 

“I thought I said to keep your voice down,” the older Paul says, his voice a sharp whisper, and he moves even further into Paul’s personal space.

 

_Fuck, this has to be a dream,_ he thinks. _There is no way I could ever be that intimidating._ His hands are shaking and he feels like his knees might give out. Maybe it’s just the caffeine. The world of all-nighters has never felt like the real one to him.

 

“Well, at least I age well,” Paul says, thinking out loud. The other version of him looks slightly surprised, raises an eyebrow, face flushing slightly, though barely noticeable in the cool blue light from the computer behind them.

 

“I’m sorry?” the older Paul says.

 

“Well, I mean,” Paul gestures broadly up and down at his future self and laughs, almost hysterically. There’s no way this is real. “You got hot. I mean, I got hot?” He puts one shaky hand to his face. “This is crazy.”

 

“I promise, this is 100% real,” the older Paul says as he takes another step closer to his younger self, placing one hand on his shoulder lightly. Paul can’t help but lean into the touch, a confirmation that this is really happening. And god it’s been ages since anyone has just… touched him. The isolation is intentional, of course; he never was good at seeking contact with anyone, except maybe Jack.

 

The older Paul moves closer, and Paul finds his brain conflicted as to whether he is uncomfortable or not; intimidated, yes, but not necessarily uncomfortable. The closeness isn’t unwanted at all, and he can’t deny that he’s fascinated by how different his older self is. It’s fucked up. Incredibly fucked up. Like some kind of bad sci-fi trope.

 

Paul squeezes his eyes closed, trying to calm his racing thoughts, and feels a hand on his other shoulder, close to his neck, a thumb rubbing small and comforting circles into the fabric of his shirt, just above his collarbone. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

 

“Jack—“ his head is foggy from tiredness; it’s the only name he can think, the only name that ever meant anything to him when he felt such a strong desire for touch.

 

“You miss him, don’t you?” his older self says softly. Paul nods, squeezing his eyes closed harder. Of course he does. There’s a long pause and the older Paul sighs.

 

“I do too. It’s alright.” The statement is probably meant to be comforting, but Paul’s eyes shoot open, suddenly afraid.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

The older version of him doesn’t respond, his face not giving any indication of what he’s thinking. Paul feels like he’s going to throw up.

 

“Is he okay? Does something happen to him in the future?” There’s a cold hollowness in Paul’s stomach, his legs threatening to give out from beneath him. “He’s not dead, is he?”

 

Future Paul finally meets his eyes, shaking his head. “No, he’s alive.”

 

“Then why—?” Paul can’t sort out his thoughts well enough to finish the question. He searches his older self’s face for some response, but he’s gotten much better at hiding his emotions than Paul is now.

 

“It’s complicated,” he says. “Things change.”

 

“But you can’t tell me? You really can’t tell me anything?” Paul feels some kind of desperation rising in his chest, and he grabs the lapels of his older self’s jacket, their faces much closer than he intended, searching his own familiar eyes for something, anything. “Why can’t you just talk to me?”

 

“That’s not why I’m here,” the older Paul says, voice low. He takes Paul’s hands in his own, firmly, pulling them away from the collar of his coat. “Please don’t do that,” he says, and the tone in his voice makes Paul’s stomach drop. He has Paul firmly by the wrists, and for a moment Paul is absolutely terrified of himself. His eyes involuntarily fall to his older self’s lips, half open after the command. _Fuck. There’s no way that went unnoticed._

 

“But I—“ Paul’s protest is cut off as the distance between them is closed and his future self kisses him, gently, for just long enough to shut him up. He still has Paul by the wrists, and Paul feels a shiver run down his spine. It’s an interesting experience, kissing himself, but it’s cut far too short to satisfy the morbid curiosity that’s slowly taking over his brain.

 

“What the fuck?” Paul whispers after he catches his breath, still unable to stop shaking.

 

“Oh, please,” the older Paul says with a tone of amusement. “I’ve already lived this. I know you were thinking about it.”

 

“Well— I—“ Paul stutters, unsure how to answer. “Yes? I mean, who hasn’t thought about fucking their clone, or something?”

 

“Is that where you want this to go then?”

 

“No! I mean,” Paul leans away from his future self, practically sitting on the table behind him now. “No?”

 

The older Paul backs away just a bit, releasing Paul’s wrists. His hands fall to his sides, but there’s an itch in his fingers like they want to be somewhere else, reaching out. He ignores it, writes it off as another side effect of sleep deprivation and caffeine.

 

“Is that why you’re really here? Some kind of… weird fantasy about fucking yourself?”

 

“I’m here because I’ve already experienced this and I can’t change my own past,” his older self says, words slow and carefully planned. “I told you that already.”

 

“Yeah, but there’s no way that’s the whole explanation. What, do you feel sorry for me?” Paul is suddenly painfully aware of how he probably looks: dark circles under his eyes, unwashed hair, a mess from days of isolation and overworking. He would probably pity himself, as much as he hates it.

 

“I am you, and you know I don’t like feeling sorry for myself.”

 

Paul bites his lip. That’s true. He looks up and down the older version of himself in front of him again, taking a shaky breath. This still doesn’t feel real, and without the physical contact he’s afraid he might reach out and find his hand goes right through the man before him like a ghost.

 

His older self seems to read the fear in his eyes and moves closer again, putting one hand on Paul’s hip and looking at him with a patient expression, waiting for a response. As much as he wants to be skeptical, he can’t help but trust this version of himself. Why would he have any reason not to?

 

———

 

Paul’s hand rests his younger self's hip, awaiting what he knows will happen next. His memory of this night is still vivid, though experiencing it from the other side is… not exactly what he expected. He gazes steadily into his younger self’s eyes— his eyes, familiar even without the lines that he’s grown accustomed to seeing at their corners— and sees so much more trust, and so much more fear, than he remembers. It almost feels like manipulation, knowing exactly what will happen here tonight. But it was always going to be this way.

 

His younger self tilts his head to the side just slightly, still examining his expression with some kind of awe, and Paul leans in just a little closer to encourage him. The younger man closes the distance just as he expected, kissing him with shaky restraint; he can feel his young self’s chest against his, heart racing. He can feel the small built-up scar where he bites his lip when he’s nervous, a habit he endured the worst of when he was in school. He wonders if his younger self can feel the same on his own lips. He doesn’t quite recall. It seems he’s too tense to notice much of anything, and Paul’s hand slides further around his waist to the small of his back, fingers tracing shapes in a comforting motion that Paul knows will calm him.

 

The reaction is obvious; the younger Paul’s shoulders drop, losing most of the tension they had been holding, and one hand goes to Paul’s chest, fingers curling around the lapel of his jacket again. Paul doesn’t resist this time as his younger self pulls gently at the front of his shirt, trying to get closer. He feels disgusting, wrong; he knows he has all the power in this situation and he doesn’t really want to abuse it, but fuck, this really is just as good the second time around, and he craves this closeness just as much now as he did when it first happened. Maybe more. It’s been too fucking long since he’s allowed himself any kind of human contact.

 

His free hand goes to his past self’s face, thumb running along his cheek before threading his fingers into the younger Paul’s messy hair and pulling him away. He lets out a whimper as the kiss is broken, and Paul feels a strange surge of satisfaction at the sound. Unexpected.

 

He looks at his past self for a moment after they break apart, pupils huge from the darkness in the room and from arousal, mouth half open, an expression that he recognizes as exhilaration. Paul has him pushed up against the table behind them, the soft light from the streetlamps outside the windows casting a dim halo around his head and the brighter bluish glow of the computer next to them throwing half of him into shadow. The angles of his face and body aren’t as sharp as Paul knows his own have become, and the softness and openness of his face is oddly endearing. Paul had never realized how… cute he used to look.

 

Paul disentangles his fingers from his younger self’s hair and puts the hand on his chest instead, holding him in place as he tries to kiss Paul again.

 

“Hey,” the younger Paul protests, but Paul gives him a very intense look and a soft  _ shh _ , and he’s quiet. Paul’s fingers trace up and down his younger self’s spine, and he sees the reaction in the flutter of the young man’s lashes, closing his eyes for a moment, relishing the physical affection.

 

“Is this alright?” Paul asks, already knowing the answer. The younger Paul nods, makes a soft  _ mm _ sound. The confirmation feels good, even if he knew it was coming. It’s not necessary, of course, but he remembers the warmth he’d felt in the pit of his stomach when he heard that the first time, the feeling of being understood. He looks over his younger self, eyes still closed as Paul’s fingers smooth over the fabric of his shirt, feeling that small remainder of tension in the muscles between his shoulder blades. His face is soft, open, trusting; suddenly the idea of breaking this younger version of himself seems sickeningly tempting. But, Paul thinks, he may as well leave most of the breaking to fate; this version of himself has a lot to go through in his near future. He takes a breath and looks fondly at his younger self before he moves his hand down to the young man’s hips. He hooks his hand under one thigh before pushing him up and back just a little, sliding him so he’s sitting on the table with Paul between his legs. The young man opens his eyes suddenly, looking up at Paul looming over him.

 

———

 

Paul feels his breath catch in his throat again as his older self lifts him onto the table behind him, the hand still on his chest forcing him down just a little. Paul’s shoulders are against the wall behind the table, leaning back against its cool surface, and he shivers as he looks up at the older version of himself. He feels cornered, his heart racing, trapped between the wall and the table and the man above him, holding him still and looking at him with a strange intensity, as if considering some puzzle set before him.

 

“You know,” the older Paul murmurs, leaning down so his face is closer to Paul’s, “I would ask if you want this, but I’ve lived it already. I know the answer.”

 

Paul’s stomach flutters with some kind of fear or desire and he unconsciously makes a small sound at the back of his throat. His fingers tighten on the collar of his older self’s shirt, holding on for dear life, his head spinning, unable to take his eyes off this strangely confident future version of himself.

 

“Careful,” the older man says, taking Paul’s wrists again. “This is a nice shirt, you know.”

 

Paul almost laughs; of course that’s what he would be concerned about. He can’t even remember what he’s wearing, has been wearing for two days, although the chill of goosebumps on his arms tell him it’s just a tee shirt and his sweatshirt has been misplaced somewhere again. His fingers fidget in the hold they’re in.

 

“Wait,” the older Paul says, releasing Paul’s hands and shrugging out of his jacket, moving away for a moment to hang it on the back of a chair. The sudden loss of the heat and pressure from his body makes Paul shiver even more, and he’s pleased when the older man returns and leans down to kiss his cheek.

 

Paul moves quickly, still a little shaky, and takes his older self by the front of his shirt, pulling him down into a kiss as his jittery fingers work at the buttons of his shirt. “Good boy,” the older man encourages, words muffled through the kiss, and Paul’s heart races a hundred miles an hour. Of course he knows Paul’s desire for praise. They are the same person, after all.

 

The older Paul’s hands slide up his thighs, his hips, fingers ghosting along the bottom edge of his shirt before slipping under it and up across his ribcage, gentle, barely brushing his skin. Paul makes a soft sound of pleasure, and the older Paul takes the opportunity to sink his teeth into Paul’s bottom lip as his mouth opens just a bit. Paul whimpers, suddenly aware of how little control he has, how well this other version of him knows what he wants. There’s a pang of fear in the pit of his stomach again, knowing that he’s not in control of the situation, but it’s washed away as the older Paul runs a hand down his spine under his shirt, his palm warm against Paul’s skin, the movement grounding and comforting. There’s no reason for him to hurt himself.

 

Paul can’t seem to get his fingers to work properly to undo the last button of his older self’s shirt, and he huffs in frustration and pulls away from kissing the older man. “A little help?” he asks, biting his lip, and the other Paul tilts his head to one side with a half-smile that Paul recognizes as some kind of gloating expression. The older Paul pops the last button on his shirt and slides it off before leaning back down to tug at the bottom of Paul’s shirt, and he lifts his arms to allow it to be pulled off over his head, pushing a strand of hair into his eyes. The older man discards the shirt and brushes the hair back behind Paul’s ear, eyes focusing at the side of his face for a moment before kissing his cheek softly, leaving a trail of kisses down his jaw and neck, stopping at his chest and letting his lips linger for a moment at one of Paul’s nipples, teeth just grazing the skin. Paul hadn’t realized he even had that much sensitivity in his chest, and he lets out an honest-to-god moan as one hand goes instinctually to the other man’s hair, fingers brushing through the neatly-arranged locks, though the older Paul doesn’t seem to mind him messing it up.

 

“Holy fuck,” Paul whispers as the older man grips Paul’s hips, fingernails digging into his now-exposed skin, and holds him tight as he kisses further down his chest and stomach, past his scars, hard and long enough that Paul knows there will be marks left on his skin. He stops just above Paul’s belt, hesitating for a moment, then seeming to have a better idea as he returns to kiss Paul, fingers still digging into Paul’s hips as his tongue finds its way into Paul’s mouth. Paul pushes back up against him, trying to arch his back and press his hips up into his older self, but the hands at his hips dig in harder and he moans as he feels one hand dragging upwards, nails scratching him, drawing blood.

 

“Careful—!” he gasps, breaking away for just a moment, his stomach fluttering with nervousness.

 

“But you like it, don’t you?” his older self purrs in his ear, and fuck, yes, he does, as much as it scares him. He nods, feeling his pulse thrumming in his temples.

 

“That’s what I thought.”

 

Paul can barely breathe; every neuron in his brain seems to have focused in on the sensation coming from his hip, the sting as air hits the scratches that his older self drew up his hipbone. It hurts, but god, it’s so good, and Paul feels like there’s a knife twisting in his gut. The older Paul still has a tight hold on him, and he untangles his fingers from the other Paul’s hair, trying to back away just a little, his shoulders already pressed up against the wall behind him. His hands go to his other self’s wrists, not sure if he wants him to let go or do it again, hurt him more.

 

His future self senses his apprehension almost immediately, pulling away and giving him space. He lets go of Paul’s hips, Paul still holding tight to his wrists, and rests his hands lightly on Paul’s thighs as Paul takes a deep, shuddery breath and looks at the man in front of him.

 

It’s strange to see himself from this perspective, to see the little differences that he knows will happen to him over time. This older version of him is more muscular than he is, more mass in his shoulders and chest that Paul ever thought he could have. There’s a huge crisscross of raised white scars across his left side, in addition to the familiar ones on his chest, and they spread from his ribs down to just above his hip. There are more on his arms and hands, small lines and marks built up over years from god knows what. It registers somewhere in the back of his mind that he’ll have to acquire all those marks over the next 17 years of his life, and he shudders at the strange desire he feels in the pit of his stomach. He shouldn’t want that. He shouldn’t feel his heartbeat skip in excitement at the idea of all that pain.

 

The older Paul is watching him closely, concerned, and he takes one of Paul’s hands and squeezes it for a moment, trying to reassure him. Paul clears his throat, suddenly not in the right headspace for what they were doing before.

 

“How did you, uh—“ He gestures to the scars on the older Paul’s side, the smaller ones that cover most of the rest of his body.

 

“That’s not important,” he replies, looking away for just a moment. He holds Paul’s hand tighter, rubbing his thumb across the back of his hand. “You’ll survive, that’s all that matters.”

 

Paul feels his shoulders shaking, the movement translating down into his arms and hands, making him even more jittery than he was before. He squeezes his eyes shut, realizing that his older self probably knows what he’s thinking anyway: why would he want that?

 

“Hush,” the older Paul says softly, pulling him in close and wrapping an arm around him, stroking his hair with the other hand. The embrace is warmer than Paul was expecting, if a little awkward, and Paul crumples inward, resting his head on the older man’s shoulder and trying to hold back the emotions surging through him.  


 

His hip stings where the air hits the open scratches; he can feel blood beading up at the edge of one, and the sensation threatens again to take over everything else he’s feeling. Instead he hooks his ankles together behind his older self’s back and uses the leverage to pull him even closer, as if more contact will somehow make this overwhelming feeling go away. He loops his arms around the older man’s waist and holds on tight, their chests pressed close together, and for a moment he thinks he can feel the other man’s heart racing as fast as his own.

 

“ _ Shh _ ,” the older Paul murmurs, fingers still stroking slowly through Paul’s hair. He kisses the side of Paul’s neck, his hand rubbing the spot between Paul’s shoulder blades for comfort. Paul lets out a long breath, hooking his thumbs into the belt loops of his older self’s pants, his whole body going limp as he focuses on the feeling of the hand on his back, warm skin making hypnotic circles, the motion slowly calming him down, warming him up again. He feels the older Paul kiss his neck again, lingering a little longer, and he tilts his head to the side to expose his neck more.

 

The older man takes the cue easily and kisses him again, harder, letting his teeth graze the skin on the most sensitive part of Paul’s neck, just below his jaw, and Paul lets out a little  _ mm _ .

 

Paul arches his back a little and pushes his hips up against himself, pleased with the little huff of surprise he gets in response. His older self moves one hand down and starts carefully taking off Paul’s belt, though the movement puts more space between their bodies than Paul would like and he whimpers as the hand brushes his hip, the sharp jolt of pressure on the scratch like an alarm going off in his head.

 

“Sorry,” the older Paul says, kissing him again.

 

“No, it’s—“ Paul’s head is spinning. He’s so fucking tired; nothing about this seems real unless it’s some kind of sensory shock to his system, and some part of him desperately wants that pain again despite being terrified of it. He settles for letting his older self undo his belt, pop the button on his jeans, before he rolls his hips up against the older man again, intentionally putting pressure on the cuts on his hip. He moans a little, finally letting go of the absolute shame he feels and accepting that this whole situation is fucking crazy and probably not real.

 

———

 

Paul feels a flutter of arousal as his younger self grinds on him, smearing the small amount of blood that had been collecting in the scratches on his hip onto Paul’s stomach. The younger man moans softly, and Paul unconsciously tightens his grip in the young man’s hair.

 

“You’re getting blood on me,” he says, voice low, and he hears his younger self laugh a little.

 

“Who cares?”

 

“You should,” Paul says, his lips still at the younger man’s neck, trailing them along the sensitive skin of his jaw to his ear, nipping at it with his teeth before whispering, low and breathy, in his ear, “unless you want to end up with both of us covered in blood.”

 

“Is that a challenge?” the younger man says, grinding up against Paul harder, and Paul recognizes the tone in his younger self’s voice. He remembers this point, remembers telling himself that this wasn’t real and he didn’t give a fuck about the consequences.

 

Paul grins.

 

“It’s whatever you want it to be, darling,” he says, tone condescending, knowing how much it drives him crazy to be talked down to. The reaction is immediate, his younger self pulling back just enough to glare at Paul before kissing him hard, violent, more teeth than anything else, and Paul is enjoying himself far more than he should be. He brushes his fingertips across the marks he left on his younger self’s hips and the young man practically growls at him, a harsh intake of breath.

 

“Do that again,” the younger Paul demands, breathless, breaking away from the kiss. He takes Paul’s hands, lacing their fingers together for just a moment with a strange sort of tenderness before guiding Paul’s hands back to his hips, holding them like he had been moments ago. Paul raises one eyebrow at him, looking over the expression on his younger self’s face: eyes half open, dark, mouth hanging open, definitely sweatier than usual.

 

Paul tilts his head to one side thoughtfully before digging his fingernails into the sensitive skin just above the young man’s hips, scratching several bright red lines up his sides toward his ribs. His eyes practically roll back into his head and he gasps, and Paul enjoys the reaction much more than he thought he would. He moves his hands to the younger Paul’s back, dragging his fingernails down his shoulder blades, even harder this time. If he hadn’t drawn blood before he almost certainly did this time; he feels it on his fingertips.

 

“Fuck, god, holy shit,” the younger Paul breathes, pressing his body up against Paul, shaking a little. Paul smooths his hands back up over the marks he just left and is met with another string of expletives. “How the fuck did you get so good at this? I mean, how the fuck do I get so good at this?” his younger self asks, leaning his forehead against Paul’s shoulder.

 

“I know what I like,” Paul answers simply.

 

“Jesus, yeah, you sure do.” The younger Paul’s hands are resting near the front of Paul’s pants, half on his hipbones, and his fingers are hooked under the waistband, not really attempting to make any kind of move, yet. “Seems kind of fucked that I learn this from my future self, huh? I mean, of all the ways to discover a kink, you’d think Jack would have—” his exhausted rambling is cut off by Paul kissing him again.

 

“Don’t overthink it,” he murmurs.

 

“Is that what you’re doing? Not overthinking it?” his younger self is breathing hard, eyes unfocused, and his grip at the front of Paul’s pants tightens just slightly. “How’s that working for you? You’ve had like, sixteen years to overthink this,” he says as he kisses Paul again, clearly desperate for more contact.

 

“It’s working out fine, thanks,” Paul growls into his younger self’s lips, his fingers still playing along the scratches on the younger man’s back. He lets out a hiss as Paul rubs one the wrong way, tugging at the skin so it bleeds more. He pulls harder on Paul, fingers sliding closer to the button on Paul’s pants. He seems to finally notice what his hands are doing and pauses for a moment, glancing down.

 

“Are you sure you want to—?”

 

“Yes. God, yes,” the younger Paul says without hesitation. 

 

Paul looks at him for one long moment, his own familiar features staring back at him, the lost look in his eyes. Detached, drifting; his hands are curled tightly in the fabric of Paul’s clothes, clinging desperately. This had seemed like a dream to him for so long, parts of it hazy in his mind, and the clouded look on his younger self’s face shows just how dreamlike a state he must have been in.

 

Paul kisses him.

 

———

 

Paul feels the tension in his stomach increase for a moment as his older self pulls away from him briefly, hesitating, looking at him with a kind of darkness Paul hadn’t thought his own face capable of showing. He wonders briefly if he’s ever looked that serious, night-sky deep, ancient, cast in the blue glow of the computer behind them. He’s still holding onto the older Paul’s clothes, fingers hooked in belt loops, feeling like he could drown in the strangeness of this moment, this whole encounter, if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

 

When his older self leans in to kiss him again after what feels like an eternity, he holds tight to that too, eyes fluttering shut, losing himself in the feeling of it, familiarity and newness in one. His hands are fumbling with the button of his older self’s pants again, trying to get as close as possible. He’s shaking, and it makes things much more difficult than they should be, but his future self doesn’t seem to notice. His hands run down Paul’s scratched-up back, falling to his hips again, sliding under the waistband of Paul’s already unbuttoned pants and pushing them off his hips. Paul shivers.

 

“Help?” he asks, breaking away for barely a second, hands going still at his older self’s stomach, unable to get the button undone. He’s distantly aware of the tremor in his own voice, but it drifts out of the haze in his head quickly as his older self slides off the remainder of his clothing, pressing close to Paul in the half-dark.

 

Paul thinks briefly that he can see things as his future self does. He knows, in that moment, exactly how this is going to play out. He swallows hard, a sense of clarity and correctness sinking into him through the thickening fog in his head.

 

He can feel his older self pressed against him, hands still resting just above the scratches on Paul’s hips. His own hands are hovering at the older Paul’s chest, unsteady. His older self is still for barely a moment before his lips drag along Paul’s jaw, his cheek, resting at his temple in a strangely comforting motion as one hand slides down to touch him. Paul whimpers, hips bucking against the older man, suddenly aware of how sensitive his body is.  


 

“God,” the word escapes even as he’s struggling to keep quiet, suddenly too aware of how open the room feels in the dim blue light, where he is, despite how unreal it seems. He bites his lip as the older Paul’s grip tightens just slightly. “God, just fuck me already.”

 

His older self doesn’t respond for a moment, lips still brushing Paul’s cheekbone, until Paul hears a soft sound that might be a "hmm” as the older Paul puts a hand on Paul’s chest and pushes him back onto the table again, trapping him against its surface, his body a steady weight on Paul’s own. His hand remains resting against Paul’s chest as the other grips his thigh harder than is probably necessary, fingernails digging into skin. Paul gasps at the feeling, and his older self pushes his thighs further apart, his body slotting between them neatly.

 

The older man goes stiff suddenly, head snapping up to look behind him; Paul takes a breath to say something when the older Paul’s hand clasps over his mouth, holding him very still, silent. Paul hears a sound outside the door of the room and his heart races, though he’s not sure if it’s from fear of being found like this or from the hand holding him there. It’s a shockwave down his spine, and he shudders imperceptibly.

 

The sound outside the room fades, whatever it was headed off down a hall, and Paul shifts a little as his older self remains still. His mouth is still covered, and he can feel the older man’s pulse in the press of his thumb on Paul’s cheek, racing almost as fast as his own. The future Paul turns to look back at him, a dark and urgent look on his face, and Paul’s heart races even faster. The hand trails down from Paul’s mouth, brushing over his chest and stomach back down to touch him, the older Paul keeping intense eye contact, making Paul squirm. Part of him wants to look away, but he’s transfixed by his own face in front of him, deadly serious, a glint in his eye as he gets Paul off, Paul’s breath hitching and starting to come in gasps.

 

Paul moans, back arching, closing his eyes. He can feel the heat of the older man’s body trapping him against the table, feel the tightness building in his abdomen as he lets out a breathy gasp.

 

“Fuck—”

 

“Quiet,” his older self whispers, the hand on Paul’s chest pushing harder, pinning him. Paul bites his lip, eyes still squeezed shut. He feels the older Paul’s lips press lightly to his forehead, feels the warmth of his breath, and the hair at the back of Paul’s neck stands up. The build of warmth in his stomach twists and he whimpers, his head spinning as he almost tries to hold his breath, tries to stay silent. His hands shake as he clutches at the edge of the table.

 

“There,” his older self says, voice low, right in his ear, as Paul’s hips jerk involuntarily, trying to get more friction despite the hand holding him down against the table. The word resonates in his skull, his spine, and he feels suspended, about to break. Then it shatters, his whole body letting go in one instant; a crash, a wave, release. His head falls back against the cool metal of the table and he lets out a long, shuddery breath, his exhaustion-addled brain unable to keep up with his body.

 

It takes a moment for his mind to stop drifting, to focus, and he realizes the weight of his older self’s body has lifted, and he’s freezing. Slowly, shakily, he pushes himself up onto his elbows, eyes readjusting to seeing in the dim light.

 

“Aren’t you going to—?” The words stumble out of his mouth as he watches his older self pulling clothes back on.

 

“No, I don’t think so.”

 

Paul’s eyes follow him intently, wordless, still catching his breath. The older Paul buttons his shirt back up slowly, adjusts the collar, smooths his hair. The faintest flush is visible on his face in the blue glow of the room, and Paul has that strange feeling of watching a video of yourself you were unaware was being taken. He reaches one hand up to touch his own cheek, his face hot, and wonders if he looks the same to his future self.

 

Dazedly, he wonders if his future self finds him as beautiful as Paul does here.

 

He shakes his head, trying to clear the fog, and slides slowly off the table, legs unsteady, gathering up his own discarded clothes. He clears his throat.

 

“Well, that was…” he meets eyes with his future self, clears his throat again. “Something.”

 

“Yes,” the older Paul says, almost a laugh. “It was.”

 

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

 

The older Paul looks at him with the most genuine expression he’s seen on his own face in years. He rests a hand on Paul’s shoulder, warm.

 

“Of course not.” He places one last kiss on Paul’s temple.

 

Paul watches as his future self pulls on his coat and leaves, footfalls impossibly quiet as he closes the door to the lab silently behind him, and Paul is left staring for longer than he can keep track of, hands still shaking from caffeine, uncertain if he’s even awake.

 

———

 

Later, alone in his office, Paul Serene— head of Monarch, savior of the world, completely and utterly doomed— thinks about that younger, softer, less broken version of himself as he gets off.


End file.
